To Rise and Rise Again
by Isedy
Summary: She was lost in the fog, until they found her; only they didn't, not quite. [OC-Self-Insert Third Shinobi War Era] [Co-Authored: Isedy and NineStoicCrayolas]
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Naruto

 **Status:** Incomplete

* * *

For the first few years of my second life, the only thing I remembered were hands.

I don't remember when the blackness started to fade at the edge of my vision and the colors and blurry surroundings began to set in instead. All I remembered was that it was as if someone had switched on the light. The memories before the Switch had been darkness; warm, and mulch-like, sticky and gripping. The memories after were like stepping into an ice-spring with only the skin of your teeth and nothing more.

When the hands first came, I thought I had woken up from the dream. The feeling of graininess prickled my eyes. My tongue was dry, like I had slept with my mouth open and drooled all over the pillow. There was a moment of disorientation—one that would stay with me for the rest of this life—when I awoke. A small, buzzing noise filled my ears; the hesitant distance from reality, just a touch of clarity away. The feeling of something tipping came with more force than it should, and the world—a blur of colors and noises and feelings crawling up my throat—suddenly whirled all too fast, and I found myself crashing to what I would later recognize as the floor.

The hands were large, but I didn't notice that at first.

They were like tree trunks, wrapping themselves around my torso like a band of iron. My head lolled, eyes rolling back, before they caught the movement with rough, padded fingers. Something—someone—crooned, bringing me closer.

In that moment, I could scarcely breathe. The world seemed to narrow down to that split second, that moment where I could feel every square inch, every groove etched into those hands, those fingers. They were rough on the back of my head, cradling my neck. They had thick wrists, supporting my spine, keeping me steady.

They spanned my entire body, could crush me in an instant.

In those few seconds, I saw the hands, felt them resting on my skin, and a flicker of clarity began to shine through the fog. Something had shifted, although I hadn't known what. My vision was too shaky to catch anything in particular, but it was so quiet I could hear a pin drop.

The intake of a sharp breath, the sound of fabric rushing across skin, and then something soft brushed my forehead before my eyes shuttered closed once more, unable to be stirred.

…

I was awakened more than once after the Switch. The darkness had been replaced, and the light it had brought was more annoying than refreshing. It was as if something was stirring me from a long-awaited sleep, as if there was a little echo of a thought pushing me to come to a conclusion I wasn't ready to make.

There were times where it tickled my very tongue, and the thought would itch to break free from the fog, bursting against the seams. Sometimes, I whined in my sleep; for what, or whom, I didn't know—all I remembered was the mulch-like, moist darkness, enclosing on my mind, my spirit for far too long to recall.

And then, just as I was on the eve of a reckoning, the breaking of the dam, the thought would recede like the rushing of the tide, and the sleep would gather once more in my mind, and I'd be lost again.

The hands stayed, ever-changing. Sometimes, the thick ones, with heavy-set wrists and calloused fingers would caress my cheek, over and over, and strange, jilted lullabies would filter out from far away. I barely stirred, my mind half-stuck in the darkness, half-dragged to the light.

Others, it was the tender, gentle ones. They were slender, and delicate; long-fingered and brushing. They would wander over my skin, drawing circles as I slept, and sometimes held me close to warmth, whispering close nothings to the quiet of my skin. They were colder than the thick ones, shakier, as if their very essence was trembling to the core; as if they touched with the yearning to live.

Sometimes, I could feel other ones dragging across my soft skin; leathery, broken, and then soft and smooth like scented creams, until I could barely recall the feeling of the ones that had held me first.

The fog recoiled at the touch. My skin became a livewire, a haven of reaction, and there were times when my eyes even flickered open for mere seconds, catching the glare of the high sun, or the downy shade of a green, green leaf, before shutting closed with an exhausted sigh.

Every time, there would be the intake of breath, and the fluttering of hope.

Every time, my mind became clearer, sharper, until one day, the sleep receded, its tendrils leaving me until the time came to succumb once more.

…

The time in the sleep was warped. I remembered the Switch, the hands, and then the noises and colors and sounds and feelings in a haze of blurry glory that threatened to choke me whenever I thought of it too much.

Sometimes, I thought I could hear echoes of words, ringing through my head like bells.

"…so small…perfect…"

 _The sound of a sobbing laugh, joy so sharp it threatened to hurt._

"…She's ours…oh she's ours…"

 _Paralyzing, terrified happiness at the sight of the child, so brilliant and poignant it shone out of them._

The language was strange, alien. It had been so long since I'd heard the language of the tongue, so long since I'd felt the murky movements of speech on my own. The sleep claimed me, but I had memories, distant, careful memories, of the time before it.

The rocky, ridging mountains, a splendor of beauty before me, the snow carpeting the valleys like a blanket over a babe. The blackened, dusky smell of burning wood over a hearth, and the sharpness of the heat on my skin, like a knife against my throat. The way the fire flickered, softly, dangerously; a newborn creature in a night of old things.

They went as quickly as they came—the sounds and the memories—but the time of the sleep remained changed, a break in the warp, a glitch in the murk of the overcast.

My mind slept, but the life inside me whirled, until it came crashing and crawling out of me, and I was forced to wrench my eyes open wide enough to see the whites of them.

…

The day I awoke was the eve of my fourth birthday.

I don't know why, or how, or if there was a reason for it. All I know, was that the sleep, the murk and fog left my body the eve of the fourth of June and my mind shuttered open with a screeching gasp.

There was little I remembered about the moment, the hesitation before it, only that the feeling that had been on the brink of explosion finally shattered and I could suddenly— _breathe._

The aftermath was a clear, contemplative moment of _what the fuck._

I was in a room with high, yawning windows, and lazy, trailing curtains. They were white. That's what I remember. The curtains were so white they hurt my eyes, and for a moment, I tried to close them, to shield myself and fall back, but my mind remained clear.

There was no tempting, seduction of sleep. I could feel myself now. The strange empty fullness was gone. I could touch my skin, the skin that had been stroked and loved and cherished by so many; my tiny, baby fingers trailed over my hands. At some point, I realized…they were small…so desperately, frailly, small. I could count every ridge of my bone, every groove of my fingertips.

There was a moment—a moment where I realized that—and then—

I gasped. I think I might have even screamed a little because suddenly there were thundering footsteps, and shouting voices, and the sound of metal scraping metal, and then my door—a tall, looming entrance—was flung open, and there I saw them.

A man and a woman, wild in the eyes, and desperate in the face.

My heart beat faster, faster, until I was clutching at the skin of my face, wet dribbling down my cheeks, and my eyes were warm, stinging, because _I didn't understand—oh god why am I here—I don't understand—I don't understandidon'tidon't—_

 _(I am meant to sleep, and sleep, and sleep until the dawn of time anew.)_

I didn't notice that the man and woman came closer, cooing desperately, until I felt a hand brush my cheek. I flinched back, deep and terrified. My eyes were round in my face, petrified.

The woman looked at me carefully. She was tall, stately and slender. The only thing familiar about her was her hands. They were cold, and I recognized them vaguely, like a fuzzy memory, as the ones that had brushed back my hair, and ran circles over my skin with a tenderness of fierce it had nearly pulled me over the edge.

Her eyes were a brilliant, wicked green. She was pale-faced, her pupils dilating with something close to terror. Her mouth worked somewhat desperately, and I thought she was saying words, but I was too still, too shocked to notice. Her lips were pale pink, sickly.

My mind whirled, charged with horror and my baby hands shook, and my face was wet. I was sure that I looked a mess; four years old, a look of inconceivable terror on my face, my mouth stuck in a scream.

 _I am not supposed to be here,_ my thoughts raced, _I am not meant to breathe this air, not anymore._

It was the hands that dragged me out of the terrified trance I'd locked myself into. Out of the corner of my vision, I felt them, moving closer, and I made an abortive move to run when they caught me by the chin.

Fingers curled around the base of my neck, lifting my face and tilting it just so. Depthless, churning gray eyes stared back at me. Worry, so fierce and brutal raged a storm, and I could see the protectiveness frothing within them. His hair was long, and pale, like the snow on the old orchard fields— _why was I here and not there_ —and it shone dully in the light of the day.

"…Darling…darling…"

The words crashed over me, a tidal wave of terror, fear, agony and awe and then I was being brought closer, and closer, and lifted until I was safe in warm, heavy-set arms.

A thick, calloused finger brushed my cheek. The churning gray eyes were locked on mine.

"Sugi…Sugi…is everything alright?"

In this new life my father was kind, and the breath left me all in a _whoosh_ as my head slumped and the darkness took over once more.

…

I was born to the name Hatake Sugi; the cedar tree of the farm fields.

It was a sick, cruel joke I liked to think. I'd had a sister, before the Switch and the Sleep and the mulch-like, grabbing, twisting darkness, and our names, foreign and alien as ever, remained carved in time, untouchable by the elements in the orchard by the field.

In the cedar tree of so long ago.

 _Sugi._

(The memories hurt so much I could barely breathe.)

My name was short, and small, and it reminded me very much of the one I'd left behind. My mouth could no longer form the syllables to pronounce it properly, the movements of culture and language left long ago.

The darkness had swept it all away; the fading, distant memories; the feeling of my sister's hair slipping between my fingers; the way the trees swayed on windy nights over the glen, and the world held her secrets in the night air.

Mother had named me Sugi, I was told. Mother who was small, like me. Perhaps not in physicality—there she remained tall, and towering, so similar to the skyscrapers that roamed in my mind—but in character. She was quiet, elegant. The passionate ferocity I'd seen the day I awoke had gone just as quickly as it had come. What was left was a mother who hummed, and danced in the kitchen, but not overly so. She moved with delicate grace and tender affection, her eyes not moving from the top of my silver head for a moment.

 _(What was left was a woman who expected her daughter and received a shell.)_

Father had been a harder pill to swallow.

I remembered the lore. The story that circled in my mind like a vulture, ready to strike. The image of a sword running through a stomach flashed in front of my eyes whenever I set them on his thick frame. He was a towering man, with a deep, foghorn voice. It scraped at the edges, and the fondness and love that welled inside of me at the noise made my child-eyes sting with tears.

 _Hatake._

Of the farm fields.

I wanted to smile at the irony, but the cruelty made my stomach curdle.

…

I was, more often than not, confused.

My mind would glitch, and sometimes, I would revert to the child I was supposed to be. Tears came easier, as did tantrums. Creativity and freedom flowed from my tongue, and I indulged in foolishness that would have had me flushing in humiliation if I'd still been able to retain the frame of _before._

There were times when the sleep threatened, even after so long, and my mind would quiet, the thoughts in my head echoing like stones sinking in a glimmering lake.

They never touched the bottom.

Mother noticed more than Father, but then again, she was home more than he was. She stared at me sometimes, something calculating itching those brilliantly wicked green eyes, and then it would shutter away, behind the loving maternal picture she lauded to the world.

"Sugi." She would say, in that melodic, soothing voice. "Sugi, my dearest, are you paying attention?"

And I would jolt, something getting stuck halfway down my throat and splayed across my face, and I would croak, "Yes."

The words still felt alien on my tongue no matter how much I practiced in the mirror.

Father would catch me staring at my hands, and he would gently lift my chin, fixing me with those churning gray eyes, so desperately worried and a tender smile would spread across his scruffy face.

"Little Sugi-chan…" his voice wrapped itself around me, and I lifted my face.

He searched my eyes, "there you are my little cedar tree."

If he felt the flinches, he never quite said.

…

There were days were my mind felt more solidified, more _alive._

I looked at things then, noticed them, and breathed them in like long-awaited air. The potted plant on the bookshelf was wilting, the leaves curling a mottled yellow-brown. Mother watered it far too much, and I could feel the dying thrum of its energy. The scrapes on the kitchen counter weren't from Mother's knives, as she was far too careful around a toddling four-year-old, but instead from Father's stray shuriken, occasionally used to secure sandwiches.

Those were the days where I smiled more, laughed, and giggled like every other child.

Mother's eyes would sparkle, and I'd know I'd be doing something right because she would laugh, deep and low—a sound so deep and infectious it made my own grin hurt my chubby cheeks—and run a finger down my face, a murmur of something lifting her lips. Her hair, a sharp, auburn-brown shone in the day and in the night, when my mind receded, and the ghosts came to haunt the door, it glinted silver.

The days where I could feel the thrum inside of me were dangerous.

My father loved to have me outside the husk of my mind; his joy, ever-rampant, was thunderous in its applause when he saw me spirit across the living room, a giggle escaping my childish lips. He scooped me up, large, warm hands settling on my child-waist, and for a second, I'd stop and the shadowing sleep would skitter in the back of my mind and I'd stutter—

"Sugi-chan," Father would say, tugging on my silver locks, "What have you been doing today?"

—And then my mind would _snap_ and the smile slipping off my face would come back in full force.

"I played with the sand today!" Something tickled the back of my mind, something desperate to break free, "It was fun."

My father laughed, and it was deep and ever-infectious, just as my mother's smile. His eyes would soften when they landed on me and the itch would _scritch-scratch-scritch-scratch_ , and I'd think of those orchards, with the snow and my sister's hair except—

"Are you going to play with me next time daddy?"

— _I had no sister._

Father smiled, and the beat filled my throat, and the rush burrowed through my mind.

"Of course, my dearest one."

 _Remember to take your sister._

…

The sleep had gone, but something remained in its wake.

There were times where I was better than others. My mind, long-lost and half-shadowed, tried to emerge, a struggling, vicious beast, restrained by circumstance and time. There were times when the mind I'd had before nearly burst free, and I'd touch the freedom that splayed over my tongue, so close, so desperate, as the blood trickled down my chin.

"Sugi," my mother scolded, "you have to stop biting your lips so much. They'll run ragged, you know."

 _A deathly scream. The orchard-girl, stuck in the dead tree._

I pouted, and it felt warped on my skin. "Mama…it just… _happens."_

Her eyes, those striking, clear green eyes would shutter, and the intelligence behind them would flicker for those few seconds of hesitance, before—

"Nonsense, Sugi." She hummed, although her shoulders were tense. "You have to be more careful, child."

Her eyes burned into mind, and for a moment, I thought she could _see_ —

 _Take your sister. Run if you hear too much._

She tapped my temple. "Try not to get too lost, Sugi. The mind is a dangerous place to be."

 _Won't you take your sister for me, dear?_

"Yes mama."

…

The day I awoke, the sleep had left me. The stirrings had gone, but what was left was troubling. In those moments of clarity, when the darkness didn't threaten to steal me away, I wrote. My hand cramped. My throat begged for water, clenching in thirst. My eyes burned, unblinking.

I wrote everything I could remember. Everything I'd scraped from the remains of the last mind, tattered and broken, trying to catch the billowing trails of black smoke from the heap of disaster.

Father had looked at me strangely, when I'd asked for the journal. Mother merely watched, lifting a cup of tea to her lips, the calculating expression ever-present. Then, as I widened my eyes and pouted my lips, he relented, a soft, cherishing smile filling his face.

"Anything for you, my darling." He hummed, running the calloused hand over my head. I barely resisted the urge to flinch. The memories of the ghost-touch had pressed too hard the time before, and I could feel those cold, deathly fingers wrapping around my throat, my head pressing against the bark of the cedar tree.

 _Won't you take her, my sweet, won't you remember to take your sister?_

"Would you like to come with me?" He asked, and there was something hopeful in that tone, something lurking and desperate as his eyes flickered over me.

" _No._ " Mother snapped, and the calculating expression vanished in a blink. Her mouth was furious, eyes burning, and her knuckles white against the teacup. "It is too early, Sakumo."

Father's eyes turned stormy. His lips turned down. The hand clutching my cheek gripped me harder.

"Sakumo." Mother repeated. Something ugly rose in her face, something a little too close to fear. "She is not ready."

He flicked his eyes over to her. "We won't know…" his voice was raspy, conflicted. "We won't know until we try, Aia."

Tears, heady and ripe, glistened in her green eyes. Her mouth trembled. "Not today, Sakumo. Please not today."

Father closed his eyes. He stroked a thumb over my cheek.

"Alright." He breathed. "Alright."

When he closed the door behind him, Mother went to cry in the bathroom again.

…

My screams echoed in the house, a melee of old and new, a wound not yet healed, and the scab all too fresh. There were echoes of the memories, slithering and whispering, and yearning and begging—

 _Please take her, please, please, please_ —

Sweat dripped down my forehead, my hair soaked against my waxy skin. Someone murmured against my head, arms circling my tiny body, my baby-body, my child-body—

I thought I saw a flash of familiar brown, smell the crackle of the fall against the air, the feeling of the cedar tree pressed against my head—

 _Remember to take your sister._

"It's alright Sugi," they hissed, desperation clouding their words, "It's alright, I'm here, I'm here, I'm here now."

…

And then, all of a sudden, the attention that had escaped me in those young years focused and sharpened the day Mother sat me down, mouth nervous, eyes searching, at the dinner table.

"Sugi-chan…" she began, fingers clutching her teacup. She didn't call me that often—somehow, she knew that the childish endearment wasn't as beloved coming from her lips. "You know that I love you very much, my sweet. You are my little wise one…my child…there is nothing that I would not give you…"

"Yes Mama…" I said uncertainly, and something was building in my throat, a warning, an omen and it threatened to choke me. "…Is Daddy okay?"

"Yes. Yes, _yes_." Mother rushed out, throat working. "He's fine, don't worry, he's quite alright."

The low sun shone on her face, and the auburn of her hair glinted a warm, familiar brown. For those half-seconds, my breath caught, and I felt the touch of the fingers splayed over my throat, slick with blood.

"Sugi-chan?" Something old and desperate shimmered in her eyes, vanishing at my blink.

"Yes Mama?"

She watched me, "…are you paying attention to me?"

"Yes Mama." I bowed my head dutifully. "I'm always listening."

She smiled, tremulously, and reached out to catch my chin before it dipped too low. Her eyes searched mine, clear and sharp, and then she spoke the damning words.

"You're going to have a little brother, Sugi." She beamed; she was always watching, always cautious but in that moment she truly looked free, truly looked overjoyed.

I froze.

 _You're going to have a little sister!_

"Aren't you happy?" Mother asked when I did not speak.

My breath caught.

 _Aren't you happy, sweet child?_

The world fell away, and the last I heard was Mother's screams echoing in the empty room.

 _(It's a miracle.)_

* * *

Co-authored with NineStoicCrayolas - a lovely, amazing writer! Go check out her stories if you can, they're really something :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Naruto.

 **Status:** Incomplete

* * *

"It took you long enough."

The world was black. Pitch black. It seemed as if the very seams of reality _howled_ at my presence, ready to rip me apart.

I stood, leaning against the cedar tree, with my hands grasping the bark. The slick of red blood ran down my throat. My dark hair ran down my shoulders, a mess of twigs and dirt and sweat. My chest heaved, and my breath came in ravaged pants.

"I did not know if you would make it." They said. "One so young…and yet so old…perhaps it was just meant to be."

"…Who are you?" I croaked through my ripped throat.

I still had not opened my eyes.

"I am not a who, or a what, or a why, or a how." They said, "We merely are."

My lips trembled. I tried to breathe through the fear, the anguish, the grief.

"Why did you bring me here?" I whispered. "Why did you bring me to this tree?"

 _Why this one whythisone—_

 _Please not this one._

They laughed; a deep, melodious laugh. It sounded like the breaking of something new and old all at once; the frailty of joy, and the violence of brutality echoed in the darkness, and I swallowed, unable to wet my dry mouth.

I was as vulnerable and exposed as a newborn calf; hands pinned against the tree, back pressed up against the trunk, head tilted back. The darkness was around me threatened to swallow me whole and I shut my eyes against the terror that leaked from me like an open wound.

I did not want to stay in this all-consuming darkness, not when I'd just tasted the euphoric delirium of the light. I did not want to stay here, not when I'd been able to remember…not when I'd been able to _see_ them once more.

"We did not bring you here, Sugi." I flinched, and their amusement felt like knives against my bloodied skin. "Or would you rather go by your other name?"

Something ugly and desperate rose within me at the possibility. That someone still knew that name, still knew the child I'd been before this life, and I shuttered, breaths coming in ravaged echoes as I felt the tears well behind closed eyelids.

"Sugi will do." I breathed.

 _There was only one family, one life, that could call me that, and that time had passed and gone._

The tears slipped down my cheeks.

"…and Sugi you shall be." They confirmed, something echoing in their words.

The silence rose again, and for a moment, I thought I was alone again. The static of the void grasped me by the seams, and the screams that were stuck in my throat began to rise with the hysteria and I thought— _please don't let me be here, not again, not again, not again—_

"Do you know how a soul dies, Sugi?"

I shook my head, ignoring the flap of loose flesh that dangled morbidly. "No. No, I don't."

They hummed. Something tickled the edges of my consciousness. "No, I don't suppose you do. Not that I didn't expect that from a mortal."

I swallowed. Blood slid down my open throat.

"…How did I…"

"Come back?" They tittered, endlessly amused. "You weren't supposed to. No, you weren't supposed to at all."

The fear that had left me rose again, and my heart pounded, my blood rushed in my veins and I begged someone— _anything_ —to come find me, to come bring me to the light again. Whatever they were, it wasn't something I was supposed to know. It wasn't something I was supposed to encounter.

I trembled, desperately, achingly alone.

Bony, ice-cold fingers trailed at my collarbone, stopping over the mottled bruises. "But you did…why do you think that is, Sugi?"

My voice caught on a sob. "I-I don't know—I—I just remember his hands around my throat—"

"Now, dear, let's not be thinking of nasty things, shall we?" Their voice was cold and black, like the vicious tide of a thunderous river. The humor was gone, replaced by expanseless cold. "How your body dies has nothing to do with how your soul travels, that's for sure."

"Why did I die like that?" I whimpered. My hands clenched in the bark, nails splintering under the force of it. "Why did they let me die like that? _Who let me die like that…_ "

My sobs echoed in the chasm, and I choked, bitter anger, fury, grief and loss making me lose sense of humiliation, embarrassment or shame. Someone had let me die like that, someone had let me die a slaughtered girl, terror still lingering on my tongue as I faded from that earth.

There was silence, and for a second, as my cries faded, my cheeks still wet, I thought I felt a moment of bitter regret, of shame emanating from the distant voice.

And then, they hummed, contemplative. "We do not choose that, Sugi. We merely catch you after the fall. We are not the ones who stole your life, who snuffed it; we are the harbingers of peace."

"Peace?" The word wrenched itself from my lips before I could temper the strangled anger. They had let me _die_ in terror, in agony, and they spoke to me of peace? " _Peace?_ How have I been at peace? I have been _stolen_ from the Sleep, I have been brought _back_ to the light—I cannot forget my last moments. I cannot ever forget. I am bound to the earth once more and I _do not know why_. The parents who made this body struggle, they ache, every time I scream in the night or tear my throat or forget to focus for _days. HOW IS THIS PEACE?"_

I was panting, fury burning my face, and I felt the flush of anger and tang of bitterness spreading over me, and then I felt frustration; frustration for the way that no matter how much I screamed at them, they would not know, they would not _feel_ how it had been like to die like I had, to die a slaughtered girl in a forest of no help.

They would never know how terrified I'd been, how angry, how _helpless._ They'd never know what it was like to die with dread on your tongue, with fear in your eyes, begging someone to stop, to let go, to let you _live._

 _(No, no, no—don't kill me please, please I'll do_ _ **anything—**_ )

I choked out a moaning cry. I wanted to lift my hands to hide my face. I wanted to turn away, in shame, in agony—I didn't want anyone, anything to be a witness of my howling grief.

How could they even…begin to pretend…?

"We do not control the way you come to us." The voice said almost gently. "We are not supposed to interfere."

I squeezed my eyes closed, ignoring the burning. Blood rose on my lips, and I was reminded of the scene of my death, my murder, once more. The flap of my open throat, the pressing of bark against my head, the way my long, dark hair whipped against my face, my mouth.

I'd died with hair in my eyes, and an open throat.

I couldn't open them now.

"Why am I…here?" I laughed helplessly, tears staving the sound off into a sob. My shoulders shook. "Who brought me here?"

There was an eerie silence. "You were not meant for this place. You were meant…to sleep."

My heart pounded in my chest. "And yet, I'm awake. I live once more. How is that?"

It seemed like I waited for eons for an answer. The winding silence whipped at me. The tree seemed to hold me closer, branches creaking to catch me better. My heart beat like a hummingbird in my chest—quick, panicked; a staccato beat of fury, panic, and fear.

"It is not to be said. You are a mortal, you cannot ever know, how, why."

Breath caught in my throat. "I…I don't want to stay—"

"Oh," they purred, "but you do. You so very desperately do. And you shall. Whatever was meant for you before, is over. Whatever should have happened, will not."

I panicked—I did not want to stay—I didn't want to go back to a future where I knew what would happen, where I would have to lie to survive, to kill, to _murder_ —

"You cannot stay here, Hatake Sugi." The branches slowly eased off me. "It is time for you to go."

I was screaming as they touched me, thrashing against whatever was dragging me down, and I opened my eyes—

 _Faces._ _Hundreds, thousands, millions of faces_.

Each one smiled. They bore no eyes to warm it with.

"We shall see you soon," they crooned—and I screamed as the consciousness fled from me.

…

I woke with a pounding, head-splitting start.

"Sugi?" Someone grasped my hand tighter. I looked down, and tears filled my eyes. It was small. Tiny nails, pudgy fingers. Four-year-old hands. "Sugi, sweetie. Are you alright?"

The tears dripped down my cheeks. My face screwed up, cheeks heating with fear, shame, grief.

 _They hadn't let me go._

"Sakumo get the doctor, _now!"_

As I slipped back into the darkness, I was vaguely aware of a woman crying hysterically, and a man trying to keep me awake.

* * *

Enjoy! Sugi has conflicting emotions now, as she's still very much in between worlds. Also, dealing with her death, and creepy otherworldly entities can freak anyone out. Thank you all so much for the wonderful reviews as well!

Crayolas and I hope you've all had great Christmases and Happy New Years :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Naruto.

 **Status:** Incomplete

* * *

Aia hadn't wanted a child. She hadn't wanted any children. She didn't like kids. Not much at all, not in the beginning. She didn't like that they were messy, didn't like that every conversation seemed to be the start of an argument. _Don't eat that, you'll get a rash. Don't touch that, you'll hurt yourself._ She disliked their pudgy fingers and dainty nails. She disliked their innocent, peering eyes staring up at you, curiosity ingrained deep within them.

Aia did not like children.

But what she disliked them for most of all was that they were dependent. Incapable of living, existing, without help. They relied on you for everything. They _needed_ parents—guidance, at the very least—to show them what to do, how to behave, what to eat, what to touch and what not to touch.

Children, babies, toddlers, infants, were, at their very core, dead weight for Aia.

They could not talk. They could not engage in intelligent conversations about Konoha, about politics, about the pressure of war, the strain of ninja on the civilian sector of a military state. Children couldn't talk about rising prices, about taxes, about the state of civilian education, and how trades and laymen were the only thing taught to them. Children were not intellectuals, at least not yet they weren't.

Aia had not wanted children. She didn't even incorporate them into her plan. And yet, one day, after a heavy day at work, she stumbled into Hatake Sakumo, and a small smile had graced her lips. She remembered him, vividly, from the days where her mother had pressured her to become a kunoichi, and her father had brightened when she chose a civilian life instead. She remembered his sleek moves, his bright, sharp eyes, and the serious look on his face.

She remembered a serious child, a disciplined actor of movement and thought.

(She didn't remember the lawlessness in his eyes, the yearning, the agony, the absolute loneliness)

A little too much nostalgia, indulgent daring, and too much drink, she found herself slinking out of the house knowing full well he was awake, but too uncaring to shout a goodbye or an invitation for breakfast.

Aia had not wanted children, not how she knew them; she'd planned a life without the sound of small footsteps gracing her home, when two months later, she was leaning over her toilet, face white in shock as she thumbed the pregnancy test.

She remembered after, the fear. The terror in the thought. A _child._ A little, tiny, fluttering life inside her. Was it even alive yet? She did not know.

It was a lump in her throat, stuck, and she stared at the pink sign, the little happy face, and felt a horrible cold swell in her chest, a yawning, gaping terror clamping its maw over her.

Aia had not wanted children when she stepped inside the clinic, intending full-well to get rid of the growing cells inside her. She hadn't wanted children when the doctor lifted a hand to her rounding stomach, she was growing large for three months, and smoothed the ultra-sound gel over her bump.

When she heard the slow, methodical beat of the heart inside her, she felt lost. It had a heart now. A tiny, growing body, a lengthening spine, a growing brain…a soul? She did not know. For a minute, she thought about it. She thought of the idea of a child. Was it so terrible, _would it be_ so terrible to have to clean up spittle on her clothes? Would it be that awful to wake up in the middle of the night to hush a crying child to sleep?

She swallowed. The doctor said nothing, but she could feel the tension in the air.

(What would it look like, this child, this clump of cells; would it look like her, with her dark hair and green eyes or would it…would it look like _him…_ silver locks, gray eyes…full lips… _she clenched her eyes tight and willed it awayawayaway_ )

And when the doctor handed her the pill—the one that would determine the next nine months of her life, and the following sixteen years—she stared at it. It was terribly small, she thought, for its job. To wipe an embryo out of existence. Something that was a child, and yet, not quite. Would it be murder? She didn't know. How would it be, she thought, to feel the flutter of growth within her? Would she like it? She thought of her work, her long office hours, and the satisfying feeling of crunching numbers and presenting formulas. Would she regret it?

Aia went home, sat on her green suede sofa. She palmed the pill in her hand. Stared at it as it rolled in her grip. Then she rose a shaking hand, clenched her eyes tight and slipped it between her lips.

For a shaking, tentative second, she nearly swallowed right away.

(It felt like choice, and she was not sure, she did not _know_ —how can I choose? How can I know?)

It was heavy on her tongue, it felt like lead.

(What do I do? _What do I do?_ )

She thought of gray eyes and full lips and she remembered a child, standing at the front gate, blankness in his visage.

(You were lonely, so lonely, and you had no one, and no one knew where you came from—lawless, desperate agony clouded you and I saw how your face strained for affection)

Then she spat it out into her hand and heaved, rushing for the toilet.

The pill rolled straight from her fingers and fell with a pitter patter to the floor, rolling, rolling, rolling. As she threw up into her toilet, she knew she'd leave it to him. Aia had a plan. She had a plan, and a bundle of a cells, a miasma of what-could-be, embryo, larvae, would not stop her from completing that plan, from reaching that goal.

She wiped her mouth, brushed her teeth and hair when she finished. Her eyes were set, determined, and she pursed her lips as she marched right up to Hatake Sakumo's door and told him of the existence of the child that grew inside her, trapped in a cage of flesh and bone.

Aia hadn't wanted children, but Hatake Sakumo did, and his eyes glimmered with a warmth she thought unattainable to him when she stood at his door. His mouth was slack and his eyes were round, and he reached out with a trembling hand to feel the soft skin of her stomach.

She averted her eyes. This wasn't her child, it was _his_. She was merely the…she was merely carrying it for him.

(She had a plan. She had a _plan._ )

It grew inside of her. Hatake took her to appointments, made her dinners and lunches and breakfasts, and swung onto her windowsill when she was working too hard.

(She traced the swell of her stomach. The red, crumbling lines across her hips. Her breath caught in her throat as she felt the fluttering within her. _Should she be feeling this? It wasn't her child, it wasn't, it wasn't—_ )

Her shirts were too small, and her breasts were too tender, and Hatake was there, a smile on his face, a glimmer of excitement about his lips.

(Nights were long and difficult, but she felt it move inside her, her own trembling fingertips tracing its movements, a low hum escaping her throat, and tears pricked her eyes for reasons unknown to her—he asked about the trailing lines of black and she told him it was a bad dream)

She ignored it. Ignored, ignored, ignored, ignored until on one fine, clear spring morning, just as the sun was about to break through the night's veil, she felt the final kick.

Hatake was there in a moment, worry making him look deathly, his brow drenched in sweat, a tremor in his fingers unable to be smoothed away.

Aia hadn't wanted children, and when she looked at the sight of her daughter—pale, awash in blood and fluid, mouth opening to scream—she realized that she still wasn't quite sure if she did.

…

She left them there, father and child, at the hospital room, her heart beating a drum in her chest, a sigh of relief on her lips.

Left _him_ crowing words of happiness and joy and _love_.

Aia didn't want children. She swore up and down, promised herself; it was _his_ child, not hers, and she had not place, no _right_ to infringe on that now—

She remembered the flush of her babe's cheeks, the kicks in her stomach, the echo of deep lingering wonder swelling in her chest as she remembered the little one's pink, pink mouth.

 _Not hers._

She had a plan.

…

It was a year. A year until she saw Hatake again, and her— _his_ —child.

It was raining, and she was rushing, the grocery store was closing soon, and she had to get rice because she'd just run out, and then she slipped—

Tumbled forward, a gasp leaving her—

And an arm caught her around the middle.

She looked up, and she remembered the drop of horror, relief, swelling love that filled her at the sight of who'd saved her.

His hair was longer, and his eyes were darker but happier, and there, in the crook of his other arm she lay still and sound asleep.

 _Her baby._

She remembered the kick of her tiny feet in her stomach, the rush of the labor and the feeling of separation— _she's gone, gone, gone and not coming back_ — _my child, my baby, my daughter_ —

Aia croaked out a hello, but it wavered, and she felt his grip loosen on her as he finally recognized her auburn hair, her green eyes and tan skin.

If she'd bothered to look, she would've noticed the cooling of Hatake's happiness and the sharpening of his distrust, but she was riveted, enthralled by the long dark lashes, the rosebud mouth and the locks of silver.

Her name, Aia wanted to ask, but it felt sacred, and she couldn't violate that—

 _She had a plan._

But she couldn't quite stop herself, couldn't quite help herself from raising a trembling finger to her daughter's cheek and brushing the soft, soft skin, couldn't quite help herself from letting out a horrible whimper when the little one nudged into her touch.

And then Aia was ripping herself from his touch, from her baby's love and the terror in her heart was beating wildly and she felt torn in half—

She stumbled away, running as fast as she could from him and her and _them_.

Aia sat on her suede green couch, and thought about how it began, with a touch too much nostalgia, a brush of drink and daring, and a little, rolling pill.

She still didn't know if she'd made the right choice.

…

It was when he broke into her apartment, that Aia felt her world change.

Shehad been crying, listlessly, and he was red-eyed and sleep-deprived, when the words tumbled out of his mouth, uncensored.

 _She's your child too._

Aia felt her world stop. Something crumpled inside her and rose with a sweep of crushing hope.

 _Your child too._

His eyes went blank after that, and his grip on the child tightened, and Aia only stared.

She could not breathe, could not move, and when he left, she could not even wince at the slam of the door.

 _Mine too._

…

It began with a sandwich.

She had been restless. Staring out the window for most of her days. Her boss, worried, sent her home, and Aia tried to protest, but in the face of a sharp glare, she trudged back to her cold apartment, scarf wrapped around her neck.

It began with a stroll in the park, and a hot chocolate in her hand, the sandwich clutched under her arm. She heard it before she saw it; loud, listless crying, and the sound of soft whispers and loving hushes.

When she rounded the corner, she nearly left.

He was in ninja gear, a desperate look on his face, grease and burns peppering his body, a knife in his thigh, and he was rocking her gently, a genin scampering away as fast as they could.

It was her breathing, she later found out, that made him throw the shuriken at her; high and spiked, too much like exertion for a ninja just returning from a mission. The snarl on his face, the way he cradled the baby's neck to his chest, his whole arm wrapped around her protectively, was what emblazoned itself into her mind, never to be forgotten.

She let out a squeal when she tumbled over into a tree.

He looked mildly apologetic, and even more grateful that the child finally stopped crying.

They looked at each other for a while, and she felt guilt seep into her heart, wrapping its hooks deep, her tongue heavy, her eyes darting.

Here, she offered him, and his eyes followed her movements, I bet you're hungry.

The sandwich hung in the air for a moment, and her hand shook.

In a world of ice and snow and silence, Aia was naked, utterly and wholly.

Everything seemed to move again as he reached out, taking it from her.

He watched her, studying slowly and quietly, and when he spoke it was as steady as ever; thank you.

…

When she found them in her kitchen the next week, she said nothing, merely dropping a tremulous kiss to her baby's head and handing him a sandwich.

He said nothing this time, but he cleaned her kitchen as she ran her fingers over the sleeping child, still too uncomfortable to call her daughter.

When she found them in her living room, the baby sitting upright, gripping a box of blocks, she smiled, and asked her name.

This time, he flushed, rubbed the back of his neck, and that was when she realized the child didn't have a name.

The laughter that left her was deep and infectious and she heard his own chuckles mixing with hers.

He didn't speak to her after, only to the babe, but she remembered the warmth in his eyes.

When she found them looking at her when as she danced across her kitchen, humming her childhood songs and stealing pickles from the fridge, she jumped, slipped on a patch of cool tile, and smiled as he caught her again.

He grinned back, slow and soft, and she thought she saw something like affection in his eyes when she cooed at the baby, kissing her soft brow.

…

It was when he left for a mission, and he gave her the child for a week, that Aia cried. The note was shaking in her hands, and the panic was closing in because this was a child, this was _his child_ and she had a plan a plan a planaplan—

 _It, she, the child was on the bed, silvery locks askew on a pale forehead, next to her_ —

His handwriting was scratchy and terrible and Aia was close to laughing out shaky sobs when she felt tiny fingers grip her hand.

Large, green eyes blinked up at her, and Aia felt the pandemonium build, and build, and build until it was crushing, and she cried deep, heavy, wrenching sobs of panic and rage and terror.

 _I hate you,_ she thought, _I hate you I hate you I hate you_.

When she calmed down, she scrubbed her face and kissed her daughter's cheek and went about to make breakfast.

It was a week later; a week of breakfasts and lunches and dinners with her daughter; a week of dressing her in pretty dresses and skirts and thick, warm tights; a week of hushing away tears and sleep accompanied by thrumming lullabies and gentle rocking; a week of her daughter.

He found them in the park, under the cedar tree, and she felt the whoosh of moving air before she knew it to be him.

When he sat, smelling of sweat and blood and metal, she said nothing.

He twitched a little, swaying, and then he nudged her hand with his.

His eyes were blank and watchful as he handed her the sandwich.

Aia stared at him, mouth opening a little. Then she shook her head, took the sandwich, and told him their daughter's name was Sugi, because sandwich was just a little too long.

 _She tried not to think about the rampant joy on his face._

…

Aia had not wanted children, but she as she looked down into her darling Sugi's pale face, she could not imagine a life without her, did not even want to _think_ about one.

Aia clenched her eyes tight, swallowed her nausea, a hand coming to her stomach protectively. She thought of her plan, intricate and detailed, and how it had changed over the years, shoved and pushed and cajoled until the little angel in front of her, and the tiny, growing warmth inside her were the main points of that plan.

She had not wanted children, had not even left a nary thought to question it, but she couldn't help but hope, beg, _plead,_ that someone wouldn't take it away from her.

Aia had not been ready then, but she was ready now, and she wanted them both; her unborn, fluttering child, and her still, unmoving baby who lay before her now.

Sakumo's arms came around her, holding her tighter than ever before.

His voice cracked when he spoke. "It will be alright. Sugi will be fine."

 _Please. Please._ Aia begged. _I'm ready now. I'm ready now—don't take them away from me._

* * *

Not every woman, or person, is ready for a child. Not all women want one. I was planning this differently, but in light of current political events in the US, I felt this was the most powerful message I could convey.

Enjoy,

Isedy


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